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'What do you think it is?' asked George. He grasped my arm anxiously, and
looked at me right in the face. 'Do you think it's witchcraft?'
'Of a kind,' I said. 'It's very hard to tell. But some of the people from the
Peabody Museum are looking into it. They may find a way of putting your
brother to rest. Jane, too. And all the other spirits that have been haunting
Granitehead. At least, well, I hope they will.'
George put his spectacles back on again. 'I heard Wilf crying,' he said,
staring sadly at the empty highway in the photograph. 'Night after night, in
the spare room upstairs, I heard him crying. There was nobody there, nobody
that I could see, anyway. But this sobbing and weeping that went on and on,
like a man in terrible despair. I can't tell you how much that affected me,
John.'
I gripped his shoulder as reassuringly as I could. 'Try not to let it worry
you, George. It may sound like Wilf's unhappy, but maybe he's not. Maybe
you're only hearing the most stressful side of what he feels like, now that
he's dead. It's possible that people's personalities divide up,
171
when they die, and that somewhere there's a happy Wilf, as well as a sad one.'
George shrugged. 'I don't really believe that, John. Thanks for the thought.'
'I don't know what else to tell you,' I said. 'I don't know anything about it
myself, except that these people from the Peabody think that they may have
guessed the cause of all these hauntings.'
'What is it? Radiation, something like that?'
'Not exactly. But listen, when I know some more, I'll come down and let you
know. I promise. Especially if you give me that game of stud you promised.'
We shook hands, although I wasn't quite sure why. Then I left George to fix up
his fence, got back in my car, and drove up the uneven roadway to Quaker Lane
Cottage.
I had been dreading coming back to the cottage ever since I drove away from
the dock at Salem. I had dawdled along West Shore Drive at less than 20 miles
an hour, much to the annoyance of a truck driver behind me. But there it was
at last, at the top of the hill, looking gray and old and peculiarly squalid
under the threatening sky. I made up my mind as I turned around and parked in
front of it that this was going to be the last night I was going to sleep
here. The cottage seemed so cold and hostile that there wasn't any reason for
me to stay.
I climbed out of the car and approached the cottage with a terrible sense of
foreboding. A stray shutter clapped at an upstairs window: the hook had been
pulled free from the outside wall during the high winds of the past few days,
and unless I wanted it to bang all night, I was going to have go up on a
ladder and fix it. I opened the front door, an'd went into the house, and it
was just the same as when I had left it. Chilly, stale-smelling, without
warmth or atmosphere or any sense of contentment.
The first task was to light the living-room fire. When that was licking up, I
poured myself a drink, and walked into the kitchen, still wearing my raincoat,
to see what I
172
could make myself for supper. There was Salisbury steak; or chicken-in-gravy;
or hot tamales in a can. I didn't feel like any of those. What I really had a
hankering for was one of Jane's chilli-con-carnes, fiery with pepper and thick
with beans. I felt very sad for her then, and sad for myself. The flickering
apparition of her which had been haunting me these past three nights had
half-distorted my real loving memory of her, and when I thought of her now I
couldn't help picturing that horrified electrical face.
'Jane,' I whispered to myself; maybe a little bit to her, too. Dante had
written 'nessun maggior dolore che ricor-darsi del tempo felice nella miseria'
- there isn't any greater sorrow than to remember a time of happiness when
you're in misery. My old boss at MidWestern Chemical Bonding had taught me
that one.
'John,' a voice whispered back.
Page 83
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'What do you think it is?' asked George. He grasped my arm anxiously, and
looked at me right in the face. 'Do you think it's witchcraft?'
'Of a kind,' I said. 'It's very hard to tell. But some of the people from the
Peabody Museum are looking into it. They may find a way of putting your
brother to rest. Jane, too. And all the other spirits that have been haunting
Granitehead. At least, well, I hope they will.'
George put his spectacles back on again. 'I heard Wilf crying,' he said,
staring sadly at the empty highway in the photograph. 'Night after night, in
the spare room upstairs, I heard him crying. There was nobody there, nobody
that I could see, anyway. But this sobbing and weeping that went on and on,
like a man in terrible despair. I can't tell you how much that affected me,
John.'
I gripped his shoulder as reassuringly as I could. 'Try not to let it worry
you, George. It may sound like Wilf's unhappy, but maybe he's not. Maybe
you're only hearing the most stressful side of what he feels like, now that
he's dead. It's possible that people's personalities divide up,
171
when they die, and that somewhere there's a happy Wilf, as well as a sad one.'
George shrugged. 'I don't really believe that, John. Thanks for the thought.'
'I don't know what else to tell you,' I said. 'I don't know anything about it
myself, except that these people from the Peabody think that they may have
guessed the cause of all these hauntings.'
'What is it? Radiation, something like that?'
'Not exactly. But listen, when I know some more, I'll come down and let you
know. I promise. Especially if you give me that game of stud you promised.'
We shook hands, although I wasn't quite sure why. Then I left George to fix up
his fence, got back in my car, and drove up the uneven roadway to Quaker Lane
Cottage.
I had been dreading coming back to the cottage ever since I drove away from
the dock at Salem. I had dawdled along West Shore Drive at less than 20 miles
an hour, much to the annoyance of a truck driver behind me. But there it was
at last, at the top of the hill, looking gray and old and peculiarly squalid
under the threatening sky. I made up my mind as I turned around and parked in
front of it that this was going to be the last night I was going to sleep
here. The cottage seemed so cold and hostile that there wasn't any reason for
me to stay.
I climbed out of the car and approached the cottage with a terrible sense of
foreboding. A stray shutter clapped at an upstairs window: the hook had been
pulled free from the outside wall during the high winds of the past few days,
and unless I wanted it to bang all night, I was going to have go up on a
ladder and fix it. I opened the front door, an'd went into the house, and it
was just the same as when I had left it. Chilly, stale-smelling, without
warmth or atmosphere or any sense of contentment.
The first task was to light the living-room fire. When that was licking up, I
poured myself a drink, and walked into the kitchen, still wearing my raincoat,
to see what I
172
could make myself for supper. There was Salisbury steak; or chicken-in-gravy;
or hot tamales in a can. I didn't feel like any of those. What I really had a
hankering for was one of Jane's chilli-con-carnes, fiery with pepper and thick
with beans. I felt very sad for her then, and sad for myself. The flickering
apparition of her which had been haunting me these past three nights had
half-distorted my real loving memory of her, and when I thought of her now I
couldn't help picturing that horrified electrical face.
'Jane,' I whispered to myself; maybe a little bit to her, too. Dante had
written 'nessun maggior dolore che ricor-darsi del tempo felice nella miseria'
- there isn't any greater sorrow than to remember a time of happiness when
you're in misery. My old boss at MidWestern Chemical Bonding had taught me
that one.
'John,' a voice whispered back.
Page 83
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
She was there, in the cottage. I knew she was there. In the wind that sighed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]